


fragile workings of two clocks

by managician



Category: Witch's Heart (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Late Night Conversations, Sharing a Bed, Spoilers, im posting this at 2am. parkours, setting is kinda vague i just wanted bed sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-11-28 17:13:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20970125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/managician/pseuds/managician
Summary: Claire’s glad he’s with her, she says, as if there were anywhere else for him to be — they're trapped with no way out. What an odd girl. It's weird that he cares so much.--In which Wilardo and Claire spend the night together and have a much needed talk.





	fragile workings of two clocks

"Hey… I'm really glad you're here with me."

That is the first thing Claire tells him that night.  
The words are spoken long after she's knocked on his door, eyes swollen and still brimming with unshed tears, her hand grasping onto his while hoping to wash away hazy records of luminous blonde hair and frilly dresses.

Wilardo knows what it's like, to have your memories blur all together within a tireless cacophony. Garbled, insignificant details that hold no weight on their own form a whirlwind of thoughts when they're grouped together, and it's terribly easy to get pulled into the daze and lose track of what's important, being left to reach out for things that are no longer in this world.

He knows, so wordlessly, he lets Claire in, and lets her take it at her own pace; if she doesn't want to talk, he'll never be one to break the mould and pry about it. It's not his style. He's sure Claire appreciates him not prying, too, for he's alright with simply letting her stay in his room, if that's what she wishes to do. 

Perhaps her own room reeks of death and lingering regret already; how she'd watched Sirius walk inside and take the diary and she'd said nothing, a hundred questions being left unanswered forever more before she'd even settled on voicing them to him.

"It's nothing," Wilardo quietly mouths out, not noticing the few seconds of silence that have passed by. 

He's lying through his teeth because, well, the warmth nestled close to him and clutching his right arm is a notable difference in comparison to the cold mattress he's spent the last couple of days laying on, but that's a minor detail that can be ignored without any grave inconvenience.

The boy grabs onto the blanket they're huddled beneath and pulls it closer to their chests. The gesture offers some of the comfort that Wilardo doesn't think he can offer with words, or at least he hopes it does, anyhow.

Claire breathes with slow intakes, falling into a calm rhythm that Wilardo easily adapts to; her sighs flow and even with the ups and downs and the hesitation, they're a gentle, constant reminder of the fact she's alive. 

It's strange, for him to be so attentive about the heartbeat of a mortal — people are akin to candles, nameless faces in his memories that get blown away with the softest of winds, and yet Claire, kind and soft-hearted Claire is a passionate fire that has decided to burn brightly, carving a path into his heart with the strength of seas. 

With that, perhaps it’s even stranger that Claire cares so much about him; he’s a cursed lowlife that can’t be anything other than alive, she’s known him for a couple of days only, nevermind how much longer it may feel, and yet she doesn’t stop chanting her grateful prayers every few hours, when the sun rises and when it goes down.

Because she’s glad he’s with her, she says, as if there were anywhere else for him to be — they’re trapped in here together with no way out, after all. What an odd girl.

“I’m still cold, though,” Claire pipes up with a complaint, submerging herself further under the covers. With her face barely visible and also squished against his shoulder, she looks funny, to say the least; Wilardo has to hold back a tender snicker at her antics. At least she’s not trying to hog the whole pillow. 

“...Want me to check if Sirius had a spare blanket in his room?”

“Hm…” she goes quiet, and so quietly she shakes her head. “Nah, it’s okay. I don’t... think another blanket would fix this,” she admits, voice low as she raises her free hand to her chest, fingers pressing directly above her heart. Ah… that kind of cold.

“Nothing we can do about it now,” Wilardo grimaces, regretting his carelessness at bringing the name up. 

Not so much because he thinks that the deceased deserve special treatment; seeing Claire’s face downcast with sadness rubs him the wrong way, is all. Why he feels so adamantly opposed to it, he’s not sure, but bright people like Claire, full of childish wonder, tirelessly uplifting even the most exhausted of spirits, deserve to smile the most. 

“...Kinda hard to smile in a situation like this, huh,” he mumbles to himself, staring up at the ceiling as if the monochrome tiles will give him some sort of answer. 

“I’m doing my best,” she gives a tired laugh. “I guess I just can’t stop feeling bad anyway...” 

He still doesn’t fully understand how Claire has come to the conclusion that spending the night on his room, talking to his insomniac self until she passes out due to sheer exhaustion, is a functional coping mechanism, but hey, he’s not one to judge. It’s too late to tell her that she shouldn’t trust him, he supposes. 

Wilardo finds that he’s surprisingly okay with being the support for her to lean on. Won’t take much of an effort to play into that role, and while she’s no pushover or damsel in distress, he’ll still dutifully play his part as an unspoken protector. 

He doubts his words can be grounding enough against the lasting fear, and the nightmares plagued with guilt that this bewitched household is so fond of making them have. He’ll still be damned if he doesn’t try. And here and now, Claire’s with him, so he won’t let her falter. For as long as she chooses to be by his side, he’ll do the same. 

“It’s too late now, right? Don’t think about it,” the boy insists, dropping his head a bit closer to hers, almost nuzzling into messy blue strands. He has the certainty that he’s said these same words to her already; maybe in a dream of blue dyed red, or maybe they were only ever present in his mind, and he’d never spoken them out loud.

There are so many things left unsaid between them, he thinks. 

Not only the truths that they’re both hiding — because he’s seen the way Claire’s glare clouds with flickering ache when she’d stared at Noel during dinner for too long, walking out of her room with slumber steps and reddened bags — but the truths that are out in the open for both of them to see, as well. 

Her hands fiddle nervously behind her back as Ashe goes on about one of his many travel tales that might or not be pretty lies, too. It stings just the tiniest bit for Wilardo, if she’s sorting flowers and her eyes unwillingly dance towards his pocket, silver cannon safely stored within. Isn’t it nonsensical, that it actually hurts? Only humans can get hurt. 

She might be more than the simple trusting fool he’d regarded her to be, at first. Hell, she might’ve even have seen past some of his cracking facade, if she’s been looking at him like he’s done with her, trying to put together the details of a story that neither should have the faintest clue of.

Which only makes this predicament they’re currently sharing more confusing than it has the right to be. If she doubts them, how can she feel safe enough to let herself be here? If he’s long since made up his mind about what his life amounts to, why does he feel like it’s worth starting all over again, for her? 

They’re supposed to be strangers, wandering throughout the world all on their own, and strangers don’t rely on each other. They’d never trust each other with their lives, trust that the other wouldn’t hurt them no matter what. Wilardo could never vow to keep a stranger safe, and he’s almost completely sure that Claire wouldn’t want to sleep with a boy she doesn’t know, either.

So what are they?

“I shouldn’t think about it. I understand that,” Claire sighs, cheek gingerly resting on the fabric of his worn out hoodie. It’s an unhidden affection, so pure and unlike the harsh reality he’s used to, that he thinks it should be directed at someone else. “I just… Wish I could’ve done something. I’m sure there’s something more I could’ve done for him.”

“It’s not your job to look after anyone else, you know,” Wilardo reminds her, not unkind; tentatively, he lifts his hand and places it on top of Claire’s head, petting it with his usual unreadable expression. “Taking care of yourself is enough.”

Her lips finally twirl upwards into a tiny smile. Wobbly at the corners or not, it’s still genuine, and Wilardo’s chest immediately feels lighter. She leans slightly into his touch, cooling skin awkwardly tracing patterns on her hair, and he observes her shoulders unclench and her eyelashes droop closed, soft contentedness sweeping over her serene face.

...Now, that looks much better on her. Wilardo allows himself to mirror her expression for a moment, soft and subdued adoration reflected on his gaze. His raised hand slowly drops back to the side, faintly tracing the contour of Claire’s jaw; she remains with her eyes closed, but Wilardo senses the skin under his thumb grow warmer.

“We’re literally sleeping together,” he remarks with underlying fondness, “And _that’s_ what’s making you blush?”

“Don’t say it like that,” Claire shrieks, fidgeting on her spot. Wilardo doesn’t need the lights turned on to know that the red covering her face is slowly matching the shade of his room decorations. “It’s just, uh, temporary!! I told you my bed was too cold to sleep all by myself,” she insists. 

"Uh-huh," he pretends to be buying it.

"Noel doesn’t sleep at night and Ashe… Well, he’s, uh...” she bites her lip, unsure on how to continue the sentence.

“...Ashe,” Wilardo concedes; Ashe is Ashe, that’s enough of a clear statement on his own, no more further words needed. He can’t imagine that sharing a bed with him would be very... comfortable.

“Ashe is Ashe,” Claire repeats in a condescending tone. “So, yeah… It had to be you,” she nods as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Sure,” he says easily enough. “But if you’re here to sleep, you should start doing that.”

“Ahaha, right,” she chuckles a bit. “You’re tired too, aren’t you… Listening to me talk every night must get so annoying.”

Wilardo pauses. “...It’s only been two times.” Counting this one.

"...Oh, huh," Claire blinks. "You're… right," her eyebrows furrow a bit, not matching at all with what she's said. It's technically right, yet it's wrong, to both of them.

He's almost tempted to ask her about it, but then her mouth forms an 'o' shape, and she lets out a long yawn that she doesn't have enough time to conceal. 

"Told you you should rest already," he smugly points out. 

She hums lowly as all reply, burying her head back into his shoulder. Wilardo wraps a lazy arm around her back and pulls her close, hint of another grin still playing on his lips. 

He's not any closer to figuring the mystery that is his relationship with Claire out. It doesn't make sense — then again, few things in this mansion make sense. He should just accept it as it is.

And while he can’t be saved, if he saves Claire and makes sure that she keeps her happiness…  
Well, maybe that'd be enough. 

(Gramps had saved him and given him a future, only to take it away in the end. 

Wilardo should've known that he'd follow the same path with Claire. Cursed people can't bring happiness to anyone.)

**Author's Note:**

> I recently got into Witch's Heart thanks to my girlfriend and wilclaire broke into my house at 4am babeyyy... i love their dynamic so much...... and this fandom really needs some soft stuff, so i decided to give writing them a try~ 
> 
> thank you so much for reading! :D


End file.
